Vladimir Nabokov said you wrote "books for boys."
What the phukh say ye?
My work was for all. It was primarily for genuine men. If a few young lads were brought to manhood due to my writing, then more's the envy which Nabokov had towards me. I did not write books for boys, of that I can assure you.
The pity is that he was a decent writer when he wanted to be and yet he never seemed to grab hold of that with all his might. Instead he often became devoured by perversion as we saw in Lolita, Bend Sinister and Invitation to a Beheading. The man was obsessed with adult/youth interaction and even worse he was consumed by sex. I mean sex is fine and a necessary component of ones existence; but, for Christ's sake it's all he ever wanted to discuss with anyone. Hell, let me tell you something rubirosa, he went so far as doing interviews with girlie magazines such as Playboy and we both know no real man would ever submit to that kind of degradation. Where I could have anyone I wanted day or night, and I had my share, make no mistake of that, he had to beg for them. Where I could be satisfied after a round or two, and have no further yearnings for a week or maybe more, he needed to have it go on for days and even weeks and still would mewl of being unsatisfied.
(and I've still not forgiven Hefner completely for writing about me in that rag)
Further the bastard Nabokov in a final injustice and attempt to besmirch me went so far as to meet his final day 16 years to the day after my unfortunate mishap. He never could stand or understand that I was better than he, even at my weakest. Maybe the mere fact that I fathered a son more than a decade before him, even though he was some three months older than myself just never settled into him as one of those things which happens. Judging from what I saw of him, the cocksucker ought to be grateful to have lived on the same planet as myself. Don't get me wrong, I almost liked him and would have if he hadn't been such a plagiarist. Same as Steinbeck and all the others.
Dying on my day of death! The nerve of some people.